


Pledging My Time

by Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)



Series: дезинформация [14]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky is a Good Brat, Clint Is a Good Bro, Cooking Bros, Cooking Lessons, Domestic Avengers, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Science Bros, Speaking Russian, Steve Might Have Unresolved Feelings, Thor Is Not Stupid, Tony Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Feels, Vodka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar/pseuds/Finely%20Honed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Meals were important in the Tower (<em>not just because of supersoldier appetites, either</em>), so much so that Bucky often felt like they were all making up for something they'd never had growing up. Well, maybe not Thor, it sounded like shared meals were a big part of life for him, and so he was making up for something he loved and missed."</p><p>Post <em>Pepper</em>, Bucky finally feels like he is an Avenger, and wants to contribute to the household in some way. As a result, he finds himself cooking with each of the Avengers, learning more about them and himself in the process. Meanwhile, Tony has been spending more and more time working on a secret project, and his friends grow concerned. Why, exactly, has he been acting so strange lately? <em>90% Feels, 10% Actual Cooking</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. JARVIS

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silvermuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvermuse/gifts).



> Silvermuse requested a story involving cooking... and I lost my mind, and went way, way off the deep end. What was going to be a quick, cute, Tony & Bucky in the kitchen situation morphed into a multi-chapter monstrosity!
> 
> I know I mentioned this on tumblr, but I can't remember if anything wound up in my author notes anywhere, so forgive me if I'm repeating myself. Not too long ago I had a dream where Tony woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare shitshow involving the wormhole and Howard Stark and his relationship with Bucky. That installment is forthcoming, so we will get all the gory details of that dream and Tony's freakout. This story shows some of the aftermath of him having had said dream.

The Tower was its own remarkable ecosystem, and Bucky had been a part of it long enough to pick up on a few things here and there. Everyone had their own schedules, comings and goings, times when they disappeared, times when you couldn't seem to shake them, training and missions and meals together, and on and on.

Now that he was actually beginning to join them in the field ( _and that should have been more terrifying, less exciting_ ) Bucky felt like he needed to work on really establishing himself as a contributing member of the household, and not just a strange, disconnected ghost haunting the place.

Meals were important in the Tower _(not just because of supersoldier appetites, either_ ), so much so that Bucky often felt like they were all making up for something they'd never had growing up. Well, maybe not Thor, it sounded like shared meals were a big part of life for him, and so he was making up for something he loved and missed.

Each of the Avengers, with the exception of Tony, cooked for the others. JARVIS maintained a complex schedule based upon availability, frequency, cooking styles, recent battles, current or upcoming anniversaries ( _good and bad_ ), injuries, overall mood, and at that point of him listing the criteria for determining who's turn it was, Bucky had cut JARVIS off.

If he'd already been comfortable in a kitchen, Bucky would have just had JARVIS work him into rotation, but since the most complicated thing he made involved spreading peanut butter and jelly onto bread, he needed a different plan of attack.

"What do you think, J?"

"It would be my pleasure to teach you how to cook, sir. We could begin whenever you like."

"Great, how 'bout dinner for Tony."

"You'll find sir's palate not particularly discriminating," JARVIS explained. "As I'm sure you're aware, as a result of the hours he keeps, we count ourselves victorious if able to influence him to eat at all."

Bucky smiled at this statement. Typically, _he_ was the one intervening on behalf of practicalities like food and sleep ( _and sometimes sex_ ) during Tony's little marathon work sessions, as JARVIS was well aware. "I had noticed, yeah. So, what're we making?"

"Will you be procuring ingredients, or shall I have some delivered?"

Although he was well aware JARVIS didn't originate in the ceilings or walls of the Tower, it was hard to break the habit of looking up when speaking to him. Steve and Clint did the same thing, so he didn't feel like the odd man out in that regard.

And so there he was, staring at the ceiling for several reasons. For a start, it hadn't occurred to him that whatever he could possibly need for cooking lessons wouldn't already be on hand. That just seemed to be the way things worked in the Tower, after all. 

Secondly, there was something almost suspicious about the tone of JARVIS's voice, as if he knew this question would give Bucky pause, and had asked for that very reason. Sure, he could have groceries delivered, but he lived with a bunch of nosy superheroes ( _Clint especially_ ), and since he wasn't entirely confident in his ability to pull off something as simple as cooking dinner for Tony, he really didn't want to open himself up to scrutiny at the moment.

"What can I make using just the ingredients in Tony's kitchen?" he asked. 

"There are a variety of options, sir," JARVIS intoned, and then he did the least helpful thing possible; he began listing them _all_ , a steady stream of suggestions and variations on a theme that had Bucky hanging his head, hands braced against the counter. 

Around three minutes in, he cut the A.I. off. "Really appreciate the thoroughness, but is there any way we can narrow down the options?"

"Certainly. I shall limit the options to foods sir has specifically expressed a desire to eat in the past, which are also capable of being prepared with the supplies at hand."

Bucky ran a hand over his face as JARVIS began listing things again, and this time there was no two ways about it. The A.I. was going out of his way to make things more difficult. He just didn't know _why_.

"Okay, stop, stop," he interrupted. "You've got my head spinning."

There was a weighty pause, and then, sounding as innocent as you please, JARVIS said, "Perhaps I am not best suited to guide you through your culinary experiment. I _do_ lack the requisite physicality to experience the act of eating."

And there it was. Sure, JARVIS had a good argument, but he'd never used lack of experience ( _or a body_ ) as an excuse in the past when helping Bucky. Clearly, he had an ulterior motive, and so Bucky bit off a sigh, and forced as much enthusiasm into his voice as he could muster.

"Do you have a better idea, J?"

"After careful consideration, I am confident I have just the thing, sir."

Which was how Bucky found himself receiving cooking lessons from the Avengers.


	2. Steve

“Something’s different.”

Coming as it did after a request to chop the onions, the statement caught Bucky off guard. He paused, knife poised above the cutting board, and looked around the room, suddenly on full alert. With the tiniest flick of the wrist, his grip on the knife shifted into a position best suited for equal parts offense and defense.

Steve’s eyes widened, eyebrows creeping towards his hairline as both hands came up. “Sorry,” and Bucky’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as Steve’s cheeks colored, a sheepish smile working across his face. “Everythings fine, honest, I just meant… Well, _you_ seem different, is all.”

Bucky let the readiness leave his body, shoulders slumping as he cocked his head at Steve, saying, “Thanks for the heart attack, punk.” There was nothing but warm amusement in his voice as he knocked his shoulder against Steve’s, giving his head a little shake before refocusing on the onions. “Made me think HYDRA was joining us for dinner.”

Steve’s smile was the sort that transformed his face, that made the people who saw it want to smile right back. For a while, the sight of it felt like a weight being slung across his shoulders, but these days when he found himself on the receiving end of that smile, it made Bucky’s heart constrict almost painfully with gratitude. Confronted with it, he couldn’t help himself, had to just reach out and muss up Steve’s hair, give him a playful punch, something, anything to reaffirm that he was real, was there.

“If Tony has to rebuild another kitchen, we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Bucky grinned. “Considering how cagey JARVIS was on the details last time ‘round, I’m willing to put money on it being _Tony’s_ fault. Good luck getting him to fess up, though. Right, what’s next?”

“Oh, uh, they go in the dutch oven there, along with the olive oil,” Steve explained, gathering up some garlic. 

Bucky did as was instructed, and once the onions were in position, he began peeling and chopping garlic. He could feel Steve watching him, and the smile crept back onto his face. “Alright, out with it.”

“What?”

“Not buying the innocent act, pal.”

There was that color in Steve’s cheeks again, and it was odd to find himself actually comfortable with the scrutiny. Steve was right, of course, things _were_ different. It wasn’t that long ago that the idea of making dinner alongside Steve would have left him anxious, and unsure of himself. Now, though… 

Well, he no longer started his day parroting his name to JARVIS, and staring at himself in the mirror, desperate to recognize the face he saw, for a start. More often than not, it wasn’t even his bed he woke up in, and any staring that took place involved the sprawl of limbs that was a sleeping Tony Stark. Bucky still couldn’t figure out how someone that size managed to take up so much space, especially considering how large the damn bed was.

That wasn’t the only change, though he figured it was a big part of why the shift in how he felt about himself had taken place at all. As a result, lately Steve’s friendship felt like something he was starving for, which was odd, because it’d never gone away, not for a second. He’d just been incompatible with it for a while.

“It’s hard to put into words.” 

Steve focused on washing the tomatoes, and Bucky waited, not wanting to rush him, some of his good mood teetering, concern beginning to creep in around the edges. He wasn’t always the best judge of himself, of his behavior—had he actually been erratic, inappropriate? Was the unfamiliar optimism he had as of late actually a sign of something going _wrong_?

Knowing him as he did, one look at Bucky’s face had Steve placing a hand on his shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze. “No, it’s nothing bad, Buck, it’s just…” his bright, honest eyes searched for something in Bucky’s own, and must have found what he was looking for, because he was smiling again. “You seem more at peace. Happy, even.”

Bucky blinked, felt his mouth open a little in surprise. “Oh,” was all he managed. 

It was quiet for the space of a few breaths, but then, for reasons he wouldn’t quite be able to explain if anyone had asked, a snort of laughter escaped, which prompted Steve to snicker, and then that was it, they cracked up, Bucky laughing hard enough that he needed to put the knife down for safety reasons.

“ _Oh_ ,” Steve repeated. “I wish you could have seen the look on your face,” and Bucky wheezed with laughter.

“ _Your_ face,” he insisted, but the words came out almost in a squeak. “Remember… that farm—was it Czechoslovakia?—when, oh man, Dum Dum made breakfast for us?”

Steve’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning, smiling wide enough that Bucky could count his teeth. “It was, yeah, and Jim says, ‘I think these are the best eggs I’ve ever had,’ and Dum Dum...” 

Steve lost it again, Bucky right there with him, the two of them hunched over, arms around each other’s shoulders. Their eyes met, and at the same time they said, “Those ain’t eggs!”

Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed that hard, it had to have been sometime during the war, maybe it was even in that farmhouse in Czechoslovakia ( _they don’t even call it that anymore_ ) with the Howling Commandos, as they threw down their utensils and between bouts of laughing so hard Bucky thought he’d crack a rib, desperately tried to get Dum Dum to tell them what the hell it was they were eating. They never did find out.

And here he was, stranded a lifetime away in a world that was only just enough like his own to make him feel like an interloper half of the time, his memories still more Swiss Cheese than not, hands wet with blood, heart full of guilt, an arm short and… none of it mattered right then. Because _Steve_ was there, no matter what had happened, he still had Steve, and he was so grateful for that.

“Oh, wow,” Steve gasped, wiping the tears off of his face.

He was still giggling when Bucky grabbed hold of him, pulled him into a tight embrace. His face and sides still ached from laughing, but there were notes of melancholy in his voice when he said, “You got any idea how much I love you?”

Steve was hugging him back, fierce in his embrace, like HYDRA might actually join them for dinner after all, and try to take his friend away. These tears felt different, felt like ones he’d been holding back for days, or weeks, or years, made his chest ache, and so he squeezed harder, tucking his face against Steve’s neck, just breathing him in.

“Yeah, I know,” Steve said, rocking him a little. “End of the line, remember?”

And he did, Bucky _did_ remember, the first time he’d said that, and the last time he’d heard it.

“End of the line,” he repeated, sighing. He pulled back so he could grab hold of Steve’s face, tug him down enough to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Still think you’re too tall for your own good, though.”

Steve laughed again, his smile a bit wobbly around the edges, and kissed Bucky back, warm lips against his temple. “You just miss being taller is all.”

“Why do you think I like Tony so much?” he deadpanned. “I’m gonna measure him in his sleep one of these nights, cause I’m not buying the 5’9” claim.”

Steve was still smiling, his eyes warm and bright with tears ( _mostly happy for a change_ ), but something had shifted in his expression, something Bucky couldn’t quite put his finger on. Steve gave him a pat on the cheek, the hand sliding down to rest on his shoulder again, and it stayed there when he said, “You’re in love with him.”

Just like that, Bucky’s heart began to hammer wildly in his chest, warmth rushing through him. Some of it must have been right there on his face, plain as day, because Steve was nodding even before Bucky said, “So much it hurts to look at him sometimes. Crazy, huh?”

“Not that crazy. Pretty sure he feels the same way.”

“So he says.”

“Here, chop these, I’ll get the onions before they burn.” Steve placed the tomatoes on the cutting board, turning away to face the stove, leaving Bucky staring at his back, a strange, unsettled feeling in his stomach.

“Hey,” Bucky said, but Steve was still smiling when he glanced over his shoulder. For some reason, he'd expected to see tears again. “Is that okay? I mean…”

“Okay? It’s better than okay, Bucky,” Steve insisted. He turned down the heat on the stove a bit before grabbing the garlic Bucky had chopped, adding it to the pot with a soft smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea how good it feels, seeing you happy again. Both of you.”

“Yeah?”

Bucky found himself wrapped up Steve’s arms again, so he hugged back, even though he was still feeling confused, as if he’d done something he wasn’t supposed to, had disappointed Steve somehow by falling in love.

“You should see your face when you talk about him." 

When Steve pulled back this time the smile was in his eyes as well, leaving Bucky wondering if he might have been imagining things all along.

“We’ve all been able to see it, but just now…” Steve shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed. “I don’t know why, but it just hit me in a different way.”

Steve’s face was lit up with genuine happiness and affection, so much so that anyone else would likely have missed the bit of sadness that had returned, an almost haunted look in his eyes. Bucky could see it. He thought of the state Steve had been in after last visiting Peggy in the nursing home, of how hard it must be seeing her so frail, almost as unstuck from time as _they_ were, due to her memory issues.

“It’s not fair, though,” Bucky insisted, swallowing down a wave of guilt. “You deserve a happy ending, and I feel like…”

Thankfully, Steve cut him off, a firm, “Hey,” preventing Bucky from finishing the sentence, the words ( _I stole that from you. I did, didn’t I?_ ) never spoken. It was probably a good thing, because a small, scared part of Bucky felt like Steve didn’t even recognize the reality of those words, of what might have been, and maybe only would if they hung in the air between them, unable to be unsaid, unheard, and unfelt.

“I got a happy ending,” Steve insisted, and that was his Captain America voice—no arguing allowed. “It wasn’t the one I imagined for myself, but I’m here. _You’re_ here,” he added, mussing up Bucky’s hair, his mouth quirked up on one side. “I found a new family, to boot. Sure, they’re all crazy, but who isn’t?”

Bucky smiled, swallowed his apologies and guilt, because it was obvious Steve didn’t want them. “Not what you expected when bringing me back, though, is it?”

"It's actually kind of, well… comforting?"

"Comforting. Really." Bucky arched an eyebrow.

"Think of all of the things that had to happen in order to bring the two of you together," Steve pointed out. 

More than anything, he looked embarrassed, a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck, his chin ducked down a bit, but the smile was still there. This was all Steve Rogers, and none of Captain America.

"I like to believe there's a point to all of this," he continued, and when he gestured around them with his hands he clearly wasn't talking about the kitchen. "Sometimes... sometimes it's hard to hold onto that belief."

“And me and Tony makes that _easier_?” Bucky couldn’t help but sound incredulous.

Steve shrugged, his smile wide, eyes shining with affection. “Think of how far you’ve come, Bucky. Both of you. If that isn’t reason to have hope, to _believe_ , I don’t know what is.”

Bucky worried at his lower lip, studying Steve's face. "I'm gonna be okay," he said, and it was curious to hear himself saying that, actually believing it. "That's because of _you_ , Steve. You never gave up on me. I know I haven't been the best friend, but..."

"Stop right there," Steve insisted. "You haven't done anything wrong, Buck, you've been getting better the only way you knew how. You were _never_ a bad friend, got it?"

"Got it," Bucky answered, and although he still disagreed, he let it go, just let that happy, familiar feeling of spending time with his best friend wash over him again. "No point arguing with you, anyway, you're stubborn as a mule."

Steve gestured to the cutting board, "Back to work, chop-chop."

Bucky saluted him, and refocused on the tomatoes. "Where'd you learn to make lasagna anyway?"

"It's called the internet," Steve deadpanned. "I'm surprised Tony hasn't mentioned it, yet."


	3. Natasha

Invariably, when they spent time together, Bucky and Natasha found themselves lapsing into Russian. It wasn’t intentional, and depending on their company it wasn’t even exclusionary; Coulson spoke Russian, Clint had no trouble whatsoever following along, although much like Tony he preferred speaking English ( _it was too easy to pick on Tony's accent_ ), and Thor spoke _every_ language.

Bucky suspected it was as nice for her as it was for him, which was strange in a way considering how he'd learned the language. The peculiar thing was, the feeling of it on his tongue was comforting and oddly natural, and these days he felt no need to deny himself the pleasure of enjoying one of the good side effects of his stint as a brainwashed assassin.

There was something very specific Bucky wanted to make with Natasha, and was hopeful she already knew how, or would be interested in them learning together. She had seemed quite pleased when Bucky approached her, slipping immediately into Russian when requesting a cooking lesson, but her sly smile absolutely transformed her features when he expressed his desire to make black bread, of all things.

"I've tried some of the bakeries, but," he shrugged.

Natasha hummed her agreement, head tipping to the side as she studied him. "Not the same, I know. No sharing my recipe, or I'll have to kill you."

Bucky grinned, saying, "Sounds fair enough," as he pulled his hair back into a little topknot.

"Alright then," Natasha cracked her knuckles and headed for the kitchen, adding, "Why stop there? We should make _zakuski_ , go all out. We’ll need a few things. Clint?"

"Y'ello!"

By now, Bucky was accustomed enough to life with Clint Barton that it didn't even surprise him when the man dropped down out of the ceiling, throwing a little salute at Natasha upon landing. It was actually indicative of how much better he was that Clint no longer refrained from doing anything "surprising" around him, so in the spirit of recognizing his progress, and appreciating Clint’s inclusiveness, Bucky gave him a comradely slap on the shoulder on his way into the kitchen.

"Pick up a few things for me, and we’ll share when everything is done,” she instructed, patting the side of his face before beginning to rummage through the communal refrigerator. “Herring, caviar—you know the kind—and… how do we not have eggplant? Beets, too. Oh, and don’t forget the vodka.”

"Groceries and Русский Стандарт, coming up," Clint answered with another salute, and before there was time to thank him, he was on his way.

"Does he really sleep in the vents?"

"Most of the time he's not even up there. He just likes us to _think_ he is."

Bucky laughed at this, because of _course_ Clint would want to keep people guessing. "In his more paranoid moments, Tony swears Clint watches us sleep." Natasha laughed softly at this, her smile only growing when Bucky added, "I told him if that was the case, we should count ourselves lucky, because it meant Clint liked us best."

"I'm glad someone else here understands him."

There would have been a time ( _in the not too distant past, really_ ) when Bucky would have laughed at the idea of tolerating, let alone liking and understanding, Clint. Now, although he'd grown to love and appreciate all of the Avengers, Clint held a special place in his heart.

When he wanted ( _or needed_ ) to get all hot and bothered about guns, he went to Clint, and they could talk, serious conversation invariably sneaking in there between the jokes and teasing, or gushing over weapons, or shooting targets.

Really, he credited Clint with helping him past the tipping point, somehow able to get through where no one else had before, so that Bucky found himself slowly, steadily letting go of the guilt. He’d never be the same, but more and more he was convinced that was for the best. 

“Clint’s a good ‘bro’,” Bucky explained, using air quotes ( _the air quotes always cracked Tony up for some reason_ ), “or so he keeps telling me.”

Bucky watched as Natasha dug up actual paper ( _Tony would break out in hives_ ) and a pen, and began jotting down ingredients, along with instructions. “He likes you.”

“I like him.”

The sly smile was back, and there was no denying that it suited Natasha very well. She studied Bucky from behind a wall of red hair, her eyes probing enough to make his neck grow warm, asking, “Can you get drunk?”

“Not sure,” he answered carefully, and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “At first, I was scared to try,” mostly because he was worried if he _was_ able to, he might not ever sober up again, “and then Tony gave up drinking.”

Natasha had seen Tony up close and personal during some of his more well known low points, so Bucky didn’t feel the need to explain further. Besides, she was likely fully aware that there were still days when Tony struggled to keep himself away from the bottle. Bucky made it a point not to drink if Tony was home, and even if he did decide to have a little something when Tony was out of town, it was never more than a beer or two, usually with Clint or Steve.

“Interesting.” She slid the paper across the counter. “Start assembling the ingredients. Today requires vodka. Quite a bit, in fact. Are you okay with that?”

He was almost certainly in the same boat as Steve, so the likelihood of him actually managing to get drunk was slim to none, and Tony wasn’t due to get back from Malibu until the following day, so… 

“I think I am. For science, of course.”

Bucky had, in retrospect, perhaps not fully comprehended what he was getting himself into. Natasha informed him that good cooking happened in tandem with good drinking, and so once Clint returned with ( _an obscene amount of_ ) vodka, and their missing ingredients, the shots began.

It turned out, making bread took quite a bit of time, and that the bionic arm was excellent when it came to kneading dough. Natasha’s recipe for black bread was as full of secrets as she was. He suspected the drinking was part of a nefarious plot to ensure he couldn’t remember everything that went in, and in that regard she was successful.

While waiting for the dough to rise before returning to the bread, they had pickled various items, assembled “Herring Under a Fur Coat,” scolded Clint several times for trying to dip into the Tsar Nicoulai Golden Reserve caviar early, and toasted each other with shot after shot of vodka. It hadn’t escaped his notice that they had him taking three drinks for every one of theirs.

By the time the sun went down, Bucky’s head was tingling pleasantly, Clint was wearing a permanent cockeyed expression, and Natasha had her hair in braided pigtails, courtesy of Bucky. Thor had taught him well.

More importantly, the coffee table in the living room was covered in food, the black bread was a success, and Bucky was almost certain he had actually achieved a buzz. 

“M’not positive, though,” he insisted, tossing back another shot before shoving more eggplant pkhali into his mouth.

Clint laughed loudly, almost slurring his, “Dude, really? Cuz _I’m_ positive. Yer faced.” 

“Give it time,” Natasha said, and Bucky had to admire her ability to hold her liquor. Sure, her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol, her eyes a little glassy, but you’d never know it from her voice, or the way she held herself.

Bucky watched the respectful way Natasha ate the food, closing her eyes and savoring each bite, and began to follow suit. Even Clint was somewhat reverent as he ate, and Bucky found himself wondering if it was nice for Natasha, being able to enjoy something of home without having to deal with all the baggage that normally came along for the ride when thinking of her past.

“Thanks, Tasha,” he blurted, and from the floor ( _Clint had rolled over at some point_ ) Clint parroted him. “Today was nice.”

“My pleasure, _brat_ ,” and that had Clint giggling, chiming in with, “Bucky’s a good _brat_.”

“I thought you could hold your liquor?” His lips were salty when he licked them, and Bucky found himself smiling as he watched Natasha help Clint sit back up.

“Man, Thor is gonna be _pissed_ he missed this,” Clint mumbled. He straightened up, suddenly serious, and slammed a fist down on the table, making the plates jump. “Serves him right for  leaving the planet!”

Bucky giggled, a high, unhinged sort of sound, and suddenly had Natasha and Clint’s full attention, their eyes going wide, Clint looking particularly maniacal in his pleasure.

“C’mon, that’s hilarious. I was born in _1917_! If I’da told anyone that my pal couldn’t make it for dinner cuz he had to leave the planet on… on _space prince_ business,” he didn’t bother finish the sentence with anything other than somewhat hysterical sounding laughter.

Luckily, his companions joined in, Clint’s face scrunched up and bright red, tears streaming down his cheeks as he repeatedly rocked into Natasha, howling with laughter. “Dude… _dude_ , s _pace prince business_.”

“Right?”

Natasha dabbed at her eyes, and smiled coyly at him, looking like the cat that got the cream. “I’d say the experiment was a success.”

“Okay, fine,” Bucky wheezed, thinking of the laughter he’d shared with Steve, missing him in that moment. “I’m a little drunk _ish_.”

“1917, that is just _insane_ , man,” Clint shook his head. 

“Name one thing about my life that isn’t insane.” Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face, fighting off another wave of giggles.

“There’s Tony,” Natasha suggested.

“Still completely insane,” Bucky disagreed. He opened a fresh bottle of vodka, and topped them each off, keeping the bottle for himself as he went for more food. “For so many, _many_ reasons. S’just most of ‘em are _really_ good ones.”

Natasha raised her glass. “To Tony Stark.”

“Tony!” Clint shouted, sloshing vodka everywhere as he raised his own.

“To Tony,” Bucky agreed. 

The vodka made his mouth tingle for a moment, and when he closed his eyes he saw Tony. Not the polished Tony Stark of the media, or the cocksure Iron Man, but _his_ Tony ( _Antoshka_ ) covered in smudges of grease, smiling one of his vulnerable little boy smiles, eyes warm and affectionate. It made his heart just about lurch with _wanting_ , and suddenly the idea of having to wait another day to see the man was just unbearable. 

“Antoshka,” he added, softly, taking another drink.

Clint leaned across the table, almost putting his elbow in what was left of the herring dip. “Gimme me your phone,” he said, holding out his hand, and the fact that Bucky did so without asking why was ( _unnecessary_ ) proof of just how successful Natasha’s experiment had been. “M’kay, I’m holding onto this til tomorrow, and JARVIS, no putting through calls.” 

Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but Natasha shook her head solemnly. “Clint’s right.”

“About what?”

“Friends don’t let friends drunk dial their out of town boyfriend, especially when he’s a recovering alcoholic.”

“On this occasion, I find myself in the unfortunate position of agreeing with Agent Barton,” JARVIS added, and Bucky couldn’t help but giggle again, seeing Clint’s reaction to JARVIS’s choice of words.

“Don’t worry, we’ll keep you distracted,” Natasha added, and so Bucky did his best to shove aside the odd, empty feeling that came from being away from Tony. “Do you remember much of your time in Russia?”

“Bits and pieces,” he admitted, thinking carefully on it while slathering another piece of bread with butter. 

There was a hollow, untrustworthy feeling in his chest when he thought about those days, the early days, mostly because those memories had only recently started resurfacing. Something about them was different than remembering acts committed by the Winter Soldier, almost as if there was yet _another_ life he had led.

His mind provided him with the image of matryoshka dolls, and he grit his teeth, wondering just how many of _him_ there were in his head. Reflexively, as if it could push the image away, Bucky ate his bread, then took another pull from the bottle.

“What we need is singing,” Bucky said with a sigh. “The Commandos didn’t know _how_ to get drunk without singing. S’how you keep from gettin’ miserable—singing.”

Natasha took the bottle from Bucky, helped herself to a swig, then handed it to Clint, her eyes narrowed and her pretty mouth pursed. “Do you remember any Russian songs?”

He opened his mouth to say no, but then paused, because there were words on the tip of his tongue, a melody knocking around his head, and then Bucky began to sing, softly at first, gaining confidence as the smile spread across Natasha’s face.

The next thing he knew, they were all on their feet, arms around each other, and although Clint seemed unfamiliar with the song, he was right there to support Natasha and Bucky as they sang loudly of Partisans, going to far as to cheer enthusiastically when they’d finished.

The strangest thing of all wasn’t that Bucky couldn’t even explain how it was he knew the song, it was the feelings associated with the act of singing it, because it felt like he was back in the war, but he wasn’t even sure anymore whose war it was, which army, which side; it was just the painful sensation of free falling into patriotism.

Natasha’s smile faltered slightly upon seeing his face, and he wondered what he must look like, heard himself babbling, “To die for freedom,” and wasn’t sure why his first thought was of seeing Steve for the first time since they’d said goodbye, back in New York. 

Steve hadn’t been Steve anymore, but in so many ways he was more himself than he’d ever been; it was just that the Steve he was on the inside had somehow found a way _out_ , and anyone could see what Bucky had always known. _His_ Steve was gone, and his world was changed forever. He’d managed to transform just as drastically, the polar opposite of Steve’s experience, almost as if fate had decided to use him to balance out the scales.

“I was s’posed to do that, you know? Die for freedom.”

“I know,” Natasha had a soft, sympathetic look on her face, and Bucky’s breath caught in his chest. Before the tears could come, Natasha grabbed hold of him, warm hands on the side of his face, and pulled him into a kiss.

Her mouth was soft, and warm, and so unlike Tony’s that it took him a moment to even grasp that he was being kissed. Once on the mouth, then once on each cheek, and surprisingly, he found himself feeling better. Natasha wasn’t known for casual affection, and the fact that she was comfortable enough to count him as a member of her inner circle ( _he’d shot her, more than once_ ) was something he tried not to take for granted.

“Shit, are we kissing already?” Clint all but shouted.

Before Bucky could answer one way or another, he found himself grabbed once again. Any lingering melancholy was scattered to the winds, laughter returning to take its place as Clint mashed their mouths together painfully, misjudging the distance. They each blurted, “ow,” before Clint moved on to kissing Natasha.

Not surprisingly, it was all downhill from there.

He lost track of the songs they sang, certainly lost track of time spent emptying the last bottle of vodka, and then more or less collapsed into a giggling, oblivious heap on the couch, Natasha curled against his side, Clint’s head in his lap.

“Thought it’d be stickier,” Bucky mumbled as he began to drift away, fingers carding through Clint’s hair. The archer was already snoring and possibly drooling on him. “S’soft, though.”

And with that said, he passed out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "brat" is Russian for brother (I hope so, anyway, haha).  
> Русский Стандарт = <http://russianstandardvodka.com/>  
> [This is the song](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Po_dolinam_i_po_vzgoriam) Bucky and Natasha sing together, and if you wondered what "Herring Under a Fur Coat" was... *[cough](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dressed_herring)*
> 
> I've used the movie-verse year of Bucky's birth, FYI.


	4. Thor

“I accept with joy in my heart,” Thor declared, slapping Bucky on the back.

The oddest thing about Thor—and there were quite a few things about the son of Odin that Bucky would categorize as odd—was that he was, hands down, the best cook in the Tower. He didn’t work from recipes, he seemingly had no idea what half the ingredients he used even _were_ , but the results were mouthwateringly delicious every single time.

“What’re we making tonight?”

“I know not. Cooking is like battle, friend, and so let us begin with reconnaissance. To the kitchen!”

Bucky smiled, and followed Thor, already thoroughly enjoying himself. When they arrived, Thor folded his arms across his chest, and nodded, the picture of seriousness.

“I put the task to you, James. Gather what supplies you think we shall need, but choose with your warrior’s heart.”

This was definitely a different way of cooking, but Bucky was more than happy to go along with it. He glanced over his shoulder as he opened the fridge, and Thor nodded encouragingly.

“Here goes nothing,” he said, and began grabbing items at random, trying not to overthink his choices, as per Thor’s instructions.

When he was finished, Bucky surveyed his haul and cringed, but Thor was walking around the kitchen island shaking his head with approval. 

“We have much work to do,” Thor said solemnly, one hand on Bucky’s shoulder, “but your instincts have not failed you, James.”

There were some things Bucky felt actually went together harmoniously, based on all the cooking shows he’d been watching with Clint, and what he himself had prepared so far: apples, pork shoulder, garlic, onions, and mustard came to mind. 

But then there were the bananas, which he’d grabbed for reasons he couldn’t explain, and the eggs, olives, cauliflower, coffee, tomatoes, several take out containers from dinner the night before, coconut milk, and radishes.

“A true feast awaits us.” 

Thor faced him again, and Bucky had that moment, the moment Tony had assured him _everyone_ had, repeatedly, the longer they spent time with Thor, which was sort of a weak in the knees feeling. It was part admiration, because Thor’s goodness was much like Steve’s own, and sometimes he didn’t even need to be doing anything for you to feel it rolling off of him in waves. Tony described this as Boy Scout Chic.

Mixed up in the admiration was plain old attraction ( _he wasn’t Bucky’s type, but there was no denying the attractiveness_ ), because Thor was uncomfortably good looking. Again, it wasn’t just his eyes, or the way he filled out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, or even the fact that they were constantly trying to get him to wear clothes to begin with—no one could handle Thor’s comfort level with nudity. There was something so very _Thor_ about him, that you really didn’t have a choice when it came to finding him attractive.

The thing was, Bucky suspected the other Avengers tended to forget how old Thor was, mostly because of the almost childlike delight he took in learning of Earth, her people, traditions, and culture. It was in his eyes, though, and Bucky saw it every time, couldn’t _not_ see it. This—the otherworldliness combined with a sense of Thor’s true age—was what tied everything together into a “make you weak in the knees” package.

Of course, there were also the times when Thor’s other-ness made him laugh, and shake his head, because somehow living with an alien ( _or was it demigod?_ ) wasn’t even the weirdest part of his life. 

“Your choices are bold,” Thor mused, stroking his beard. “I approve.”

Oddly, the comment made Bucky swell with pleasure. “Thanks.”

Thor smiled, and studied Bucky’s face before nodding. “Let us begin! We shall need many spices.”

He hadn’t been kidding. Bucky was almost positive they’d gathered up _all_ of the spices in the Tower. He really hoped they weren’t going to use the Old Bay Seasoning, because Vanilla was sitting right next to it, and it was making his stomach lurch just thinking about that combination.

“Divide and conquer works in the kitchen as well as in the field of battle,” Thor explained, and he began grouping items, occasionally pausing to hold something up for discussion. “This banana,” Thor explained, taking one from the bunch and holding it aloft, “we might smash, or slice. What do your instincts tell you?”

Bucky took the banana from Thor, studied it for a minute, and then pushed aside his fear of choosing incorrectly. “I say sliced, battered, and deep fried.”

“Excellent answer,” Thor clapped him on the back, and set the banana aside.

None of what they did really made much sense, as far as Bucky could tell, but it sure was a lot of fun. Slowly but surely, food was grouped, then spices, and then the cooking actually began. Every burner had a pot or pan on it, there were items in the oven, the bananas were prepped and set aside so they could be fried. 

Thankfully it turned out they weren’t going to be using all of the spices. Thor enjoyed seeing all of the spices lined up, as he couldn’t be bothered to learn the names of them, and admitted to Bucky he made his selections based solely upon color, and smell. Bucky couldn’t argue that this was a pretty solid approach.

Somewhere in the thick of their culinary battle, there was a moment when nothing needed stirring, seasoning, flipping, or rescuing from almost certain demise. He had to admit, it smelled amazing, and the bits they’d tasted so far left him pleasantly surprised.

In the moment of calm, he found himself studying Thor, wondering if it was difficult for him, being so far away from home. He, like all of the Avengers, had come to think of the Tower’s residents as family, and Thor also had his relationship with Jane, and friendship with Darcy, but Bucky suspected Thor often felt the sort of homesick he and Steve felt; they were all of them from different worlds, in a way.

“Hey, how’s your brother doing?” Bucky almost regretted blurting out the question, until he saw how much it pleased Thor that he had asked.

“Loki is well, although up to his old tricks, I suspect,” and the thing was, Loki’s tricks usually resulted in all Hell breaking loose, but you wouldn’t think as much from Thor’s tone of voice.

“I guess the others aren’t exactly comfortable talking about him, huh?”

Thor’s smile was sad. "Steven asks after him often, but he is alone in this. It saddens me to say Loki has earned the lack of regard our fellow Avengers show him."

Of course Steve asked, that was just like him, and it made Bucky smile. "Well, I haven't met him, so consider me all ears."

Thor's face grew cloudy, brows drawn together in confusion, but then his eyes widened and he laughed. "This is another one of your sayings," he declared. "I shall take you up on the offer, James, but conversations of my brother require no small measure of mead."

Bucky winced. "No drinking for me for a while."

"Ah, yes, I heard tell of your feast. It saddens me to have missed it."

It wasn't really like he'd done anything wrong, exactly, but Bucky still felt guilty about managing to find a way to get drunk. It might not have weighed as heavily on his mind, if Steve hadn’t come home and found them passed out on the couch together. That was bad enough ( _he felt like he’d let Steve down, and again, he wasn’t sure why_ ) but Steve had taken a photo and sent it to Tony.

For his part, Tony seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. Anything in the Tower with the ability to display digital photography had been modified to showcase the three of them, Clint drooling on Bucky’s crotch, Natasha curled against his side, looking like a little girl, and Bucky snoring away obliviously, mouth wide open and head lolled back, hand still in Clint’s hair. Tellingly, the original photo had been cropped to hide the empty bottles of vodka that had been surrounding them.

Bucky had tried to apologize when he had a moment alone with Tony, but had been brushed off, Tony quickly changing the topic in a way that let Bucky know he shouldn’t push. It wouldn’t have bothered him quite as much, but for the fact that before he’d had to head to Malibu, Tony had been spending an inordinate amount of time in the workshop, and since returning had revoked everyone’s access, Bucky’s included.

He’d tried to talk to him about that, too, after Tony had returned. Several times in fact, but he’d had little luck. The last time he’d tried, Tony had all but begged him for a bit of time, and space, and understanding. Bucky had kissed him, told him he wasn’t going anywhere, and so began the waiting game.

Meanwhile, the only thing Tony  _would_ say on the topic of the Great Vodka Adventure was that Bucky was lucky his metabolism kicked into overdrive while he slept, which meant the extent of his hangover had been being thirsty and hungry as hell. One big breakfast later, and he was as good as new.

"So colossally unfair," Clint had complained, though Bucky had a hard time ( _pun intended_ ) ignoring the penis drawn on Clint's forehead while listening to him gripe. Mostly, he was impressed Tony had convinced Steve to draw on them at all, let alone brand Hawkeye a dickhead.

"I'm happy to listen while  _you_ drink," Bucky offered.

“I thank you,” Thor replied, and Bucky made a mental note to ask about Loki again, soon. “But enough, for now. Let us finish, before my heart grows heavy.”

Bucky nodded, and gave him a pat on the shoulder, even as he wondered how some of the conversations had gone between Thor and Steve. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d have comfortably compared himself to Loki, being Steve’s brother in all the ways that mattered. He and Loki had each destroyed lives, cutting a swathe of blood and destruction through the world, only now… Well, now Bucky could actually  _see_ the differences between them, even if there were still days when he struggled to hold onto his hard won understanding.

“Is it bad that I’ve got no clue what we’re making?”

Thor laughed at this, and spread his arms wide. “A feast!”

Apparently, that was answer enough, so they got back to work, and after another forty minutes or so, the table was covered with bowls of something that looked questionable, but smelled amazing.

Steve took the first bite, which was only fitting, being their fearless leader at all, shrugged, and tucked in with enthusiasm. “I have no idea what this is, but you’ve outdone yourself, fellas.”

“It has deep fried things on top, so I’m down.” Clint tucked into his helping, shaking his head, pointing at Thor with his fork. “It’s magic right? Did you watch him the entire time, Barnes?”

“I didn’t see any magic.”

“Our friend here has true culinary instincts,” Thor explained.

Bruce held up his spoon, staring in wonder, before taking another bite. “It really does boggle the mind. Nothing about this should work, and yet...”

“Save some for the lab.” Tony plopped down in his seat, and reached under the table to squeeze Bucky’s thigh, naturally having been the last one to make it to the table. 

Bucky watched as Tony took his first bite, then the second, then the third, and then he held up his spoon much as Bruce had done, and turned to stare at Bucky, eyes scrunched up in concentration. “This has coffee in it. You put coffee in my dinner.”

“Yup.”

“Best boyfriend _ever_.”

“How can you even tell?” Clint demanded to know, even as Tony began eating with renewed vigor, making little happy noises in between mouthfuls. “There are like a billion flavors.”

“Good use of the radish,” was all Natasha said, but her eyes were bright with happiness.

Bucky looked around the table, and shared a smile with Thor. He had no idea what they’d made, or how it even worked, wouldn’t be able to recreate it if he tried, but he was sharing food with his family, and that was what mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to cook with Thor. Just saying.


	5. Clint

"Because the ladies love dessert," Clint explained patiently. "Hell, anyone who doesn't love dessert is either _lying_ , or not to be trusted. Fact."

Bucky eyed him skeptically, purposefully refusing to acknowledge the apron Clint was wearing, which read "Keep Calm and Shoot Arrows."

"Bacon doesn't normally go in cookies though," Bucky argued, "does it?"

"It does when I'm making the cookies. Get fryin'!"

With a shrug, Bucky loaded up the pan with bacon, and did as instructed, while Clint hopped up onto the counter to watch, his feet kicking out in front of him while he whistled an unfamiliar tune, and took the occasional pull from his beer.

"How much longer before the new arm is ready?"

Bucky shrugged, poking at the bacon. "I'm not supposed to know he's making a new one, remember?"

He could actually hear Clint rolling his eyes, which was impressive, really. "C'mon, he knows you know. And what does it matter, anyway?"

Biting back a sigh, Bucky shrugged again. "He doesn’t want to talk about it right now, so I'm going to respect that."

"Tony is the king of upgrades," Clint continued. "Make sure you get that nice and crispy, man. Each time I think, "this is the ultimate!" he somehow finds a way to make it even better."

"You'd think he was a genius or something," Bucky deadpanned, and Clint swatted at his head with a potholder.

"Betcha the arm is hotrod red, with gold accents." Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but instead just laughed, because it was entirely within the realm of possibility. "Either that, or it'll dispense lube and have built in vibration features."

The scariest thing was, this was _also_ a legitimate possibility. "Please don't give him ideas," Bucky begged, eyeing his arm with a little frown playing at his lips. "You know it'd all go horribly wrong."

"All I'm saying is, tell me if he hooks you up. The pranks we could pull?" he made a soft, appreciative noise, shaking his head almost wistfully. "Epic."

“The Prank Truce is only three days old, Clint, you can’t go plotting already. Steve will end you, count on it.”

Bucky ignored Clint’s grumbling while moving the bacon to the paper towels, but there were words like “stupid” and “not my fault, anyway” and “fucking Wade” being muttered under his breath.

“So is the arm on the fritz?” Clint asked after he was done venting.

“Working just fine.”

“Hmm.” Clint snagged a piece of the bacon, his eyes scrunched up in thought as he slowly chewed it. “So why’s he building a new one? I mean, he’s got plenty of shit to keep him busy, and I’m pretty sure the dude is more attached to the thing than _you_ are.”

Clint, in that Clint way of his, had hit on the very issue that had been worrying at the back of Bucky’s mind. It wasn’t unlike Tony to want to keep certain projects under wraps while he was in the middle of prototyping, and he was a fan of surprising his teammates with new equipment, but there was clearly something _other_ than work going on with the engineer as of late.

Even when being secretive, Tony had never kept Bucky out of the workshop before. If he was being honest, the cooking lessons were doubling as distractions lately, a good way to keep his mind from heading off in dark directions while he allowed Tony the time he’d requested. 

“Uh oh,” Clint hopped off of the counter, his face suddenly far too serious. “Did you guys have a fight? Is this one of his trademarked over the top apology gestures?”

“No,” Bucky insisted, then lost confidence, adding, “at least, I don’t think so.”

“You guys are good, right?” Clint looked so concerned that Bucky found himself touched, which was warring with his irritation. He had been trying very, _very_ hard to not question whether everything was okay between them, but now Clint had him doubting himself all over again.

“He’s not pissed about us getting pissed, is he?” Clint asked, then interrupted himself with, “Wait, no, why would he be building you something badass if _he_ was mad? Does he think _you’re_ mad? Did you give him shit for having Steve draw all over us, because…”

“Clint, stop,” Bucky all but begged, but Clint just continued on with, “he’s really good at hiding how much shit hurts his feelings, you gotta watch out for that.”

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” Bucky shouted, throwing his arms up in the air. “I wish I did, but I don’t, okay? _Fuck_ , Barton.”

Clint’s eyes were wide, but narrowed rather quickly, his expression turning grim. “Look, I know we don’t seem like the bestest of buddies all the time, but Tony has my back, and I got his. I got yours, too, asshole, so sorry if I’m concerned, and wanna make sure everything is okay between my friends.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, meaning it. “You’ve got me worried this is some,” he swallowed past the lump in his throat, not finishing the sentence (“ _consolation prize, to soften the blow when he ends it.”_ ), because that wasn’t fair to Tony.

Instead, he took a deep breath, saying, “We agreed a while ago that only one of us is allowed to be insecure, and Tony called dibbs. For whatever reason, he needs to do this, and doesn’t want to say why yet.”

“Sorry,” Clint was wide eyed again. “Seriously, I’m an idiot, ignore me.”

Since he was Clint, he managed to immediately address the thought Bucky had left unvoiced.

“There’s no way he’s dumping you, man, the guy is nuts about you. If it’s even anything at all, it’d have to be the Tony Stark equivalent of an engagement ring.”

Now Bucky was the wide eyed one, because the idea of Tony proposing marriage would never have occurred to him. “You’re trying to kill me with words, aren’t you?”

“Would you say yes?”

Bucky groaned loudly, hiding his face behind his hands, only answering once he felt Clint preparing to open his damned mouth again. “Of course I would! Can we just make the cookies? Please?”

Clint huffed loudly. “Fine. Get the chocolate chips.” He was quiet for all of five seconds. “See, this is a perfect example of how caring gets you exactly nowhere.”

“How do I make you shut up?” Bucky asked, staring at the bag of chocolate chips he was holding as if it had answers for him. “Kiss you?”

“No way, man, I split my lip open on your stupid teeth last time,” Clint laughed. 

“Last time?”

Sure enough, when Bucky turned around to confirm what he already knew to be true, Tony was standing there, his eyebrows raised, arms folded across his chest. Bucky opened his mouth, feeling guilty, even though he really had nothing to feel guilty about, but Clint was already talking.

“Blame Tasha, she started it.”

“She’s still not talking to me, which—can I just say?—so unfair,” Tony answered, and he didn’t appear to be upset, so Bucky relaxed a bit. “Sure, it was my idea, but Steve’s the one who drew all over you drunken idiots. Should have just listened to me in the first place, but _no_ ,” Tony took several steps into the kitchen, eyebrow quirking a bit, “ _he_ thought we could leave you kids unsupervised. See if that happens again.”

“Aww,” Clint moaned, “c’mon, Mom! It was _one_ time!”

“One time too many,” Tony insisted. “Trust is earned, young man.” He shifted his laser focus onto Bucky. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Bucky made to leave the kitchen, but Clint held up a hand, and walked out, calling, “You’ve got 15 minutes. If I see anything traumatizing when I get back, I’m suing the shit out of you, Stark.”

Tony watched him leave, then turned to face Bucky, smiling one of his fake smiles; none of it touched his eyes. “Did Nat actually kiss you?”

“A quick, comradely one,” Bucky insisted. “I actually forgot about it, until Clint said something.”

“Mmm hmm, sure,” Tony stepped closer, and then closer still, so Bucky wrapped an arm around his waist, and brought their foreheads together. “I snuck out of a meeting,” Tony explained, “Pepper’s gonna hunt me down any minute now.” 

His mouth quirked a bit at the sides, the way it did when he was upset about something but trying to hide it, and Bucky frowned. The expression was far too familiar these days.

“Everything okay?”

Tony sighed, long and loud. “Yeah, sure, of course. Well, _no_ , not really. Pep and I are handling a bunch of shit I’d rather not deal with right now.” He pressed his face against Bucky’s neck, and then began babbling, “The wedding is coming up, and I’m pretty sure she’s planning on having kids, which means any day now she’s going to quit, and I _suck_ at this, James, seriously, I’m R &D all the way, the Board fucking _hates_ me as it is, because no matter how hard I try I’m an embarrassment…”

“Hey, hey,” he pulled out of the embrace in order to get a better look at Tony’s face, and once he saw what was there, Bucky had to kiss him on the forehead. “Stop talking about yourself like that, none of it is true. Tell me how I can help.”

Tony sighed again, slumping almost comically, before looking up at Bucky with a hangdog expression. “You don’t want a company by any chance, do you? No? You can run it into the ground if you want, I’m kinda okay with that idea, right now.”

“No you’re not.” Bucky made a little twirling motion with his fingers, and Tony turned around, groaning in pleasure when Bucky began giving him a shoulder rub. “If that was the case, you’d just run it into the ground yourself.”

“Mm. True.”

“Have you actually tried talking to Pepper about this?”

Tony tipped his head back, and sighed again, “No, obviously, because that would be the mature approach. I thought it’d be more _me_ to lock myself in the bathroom, have a panic attack, then sneak out so I could hide up here while you make me feel better.”

“You had a panic attack?” Bucky turned Tony back around so they were facing each other, his stomach tight, because Tony wouldn’t look him in the eyes. “Antoshka,” he said softly, and Tony smiled a tiny self deprecating smile, his eyes suspiciously bright when he finally looked up.

“Should have led with that, huh?”

Bucky wanted to demand to know why Tony hadn’t let JARVIS notify him, but he knew what it was like when your mind and your body betrayed you. Sometimes you needed someone else there with you, and other times, the very idea of it was nauseating. The last thing he’d do was begrudge Tony getting through the attack the best way he knew how.

It did make him feel like a colossal asshole, though, considering the conversation he’d been having with Clint. Tony didn’t trust easy, certainly didn’t accept help from just anyone, and while he’d needed some time before doing so, Bucky had been the first person he’d sought out after the attack. Bucky decided he needed to stop being an idiot, so he let go of the notion he was getting dumped, and refocused on Tony, and helping him.

“I’m just glad you came up here,” Bucky insisted, and that was definitely relief on Tony’s face. “How you doing now?”

Tony shrugged, but his smile was still wobbly around the edges. “Better-ish,” he insisted, running his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “You kinda have this, uh, uplifting effect on me. Okay, now that I’ve said that out loud it totally sounds like a dick joke, but I’m serious.”

Bucky smiled, and stroked Tony’s cheek. “Well, I’m glad I have that effect on you. Did you want me to come with you?” Tony’s eyebrows rose comically, and Bucky shook his head. “To talk to Pepper, not… You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tony agreed, his voice affectionate. “How do you do that, anyway? Nothings changed—it’s probably _worse_ , because now Pepper is definitely mad at me—but I feel 82.6% better. Just hearing your voice when stepping off the elevator…”

Bucky cut him off there, because he needed to kiss Tony. Slowly, tenderly, until Tony had both hands in Bucky’s hair, and was kissing back, the tension leaving his body.

“Maybe it’s because you know I’ve got your back,” Bucky finally answered, resting his forehead against Tony’s again. “Always will, Antoshka.”

As far as declarations went, Bucky was sure it fell a little short, but you wouldn’t have thought so looking at Tony’s face; you’d have thought Bucky had just given him the world. Tony had to clear his throat before saying, “See, the crazy thing is, I actually believe you when you say that.” 

Sadly, Tony’s trust issues had been earned the hard way. Bucky was certain there was still a voice in his head ( _it would sound like Howard_ ) that insisted the only reason he was an Avenger at all was because of his money, and his ability to invent useful bits of technology. That if things began to sour with Stark Industries and the cash stopped flowing, the team would scatter like rats from a sinking ship.

“Believe it, Antoshka,” Bucky said, holding his gaze. “I’m not going anywhere, no matter what. And neither is anyone else.”

Tony flinched, and looked away. “Okay, no fair, you know me too well. This is an awful conversation, and I officially hate it.”

“No you don’t, you’re just uncomfortable because you know I’m right.” It was strange, how affection could make Tony squirm in ways abuse never did. “We _all_ love you, Tony.”

“It’s true,” Clint said, and Tony jumped, his face turning bright red in front of Bucky’s eyes. “Sorry, but I did warn you about the time limit. Just so you know, I only heard the last part, the bit about loving you, which we do, idiot.”

“You know, Barton,” Tony began, but when he turned around to face the archer, he was pulled into a hug, and the words just died out with a squeak. Clint met Bucky’s eyes over Tony’s shoulder, but then looked away, seemingly as embarrassed as Tony was.

“You’re stuck with us. Handle it,” Clint said, giving Tony one more squeeze before releasing him. He smoothed Tony’s expensive suit, then cleared his throat. “Want to help us make cookies? They have chocolate _and_ peanut butter chips, bacon, and crushed pretzels in them—they’re state of the badass art.”

“ _Aliens_!” 

Bucky felt embarrassed for blurting out the reference ( _he absolutely blamed Steve for that particular bad habit_ ) until he noticed Tony had apparently given up on feeling unloved. He was laughing, and shucking his jacket, seemingly preparing to join them.

“You know I actually built a working prototype of the M41A Pulse Rifle?” he said casually, rolling up his sleeves.

“Dude, how long have we known each other? Why am I only _just_ hearing about this?” Clint demanded to know. “With the grenades and everything?”

“The whole enchilada,” Tony insisted. “I’ll dig it out of storage for you later, don’t let me forget.”

So they made cookies with Clint, and then they ate them while watching _Aliens_ , right up until Pepper arrived to drag Tony away. His eyes met Bucky’s as he followed Pepper to the elevator, and there was something different there, something outside of the gratitude, and the obvious affection. Whatever it was, Bucky liked seeing it there, especially when Tony mouthed, “I love you,” before the elevator doors closed.

“So, you two good?” Clint kept his eyes glued to the screen as he asked.

“I think so,” Bucky answered, and Clint handed him another cookie, and gave him a friendly slap on the back.


	6. Bruce

Bruce was comfortable with silence in all the ways Tony wasn’t, and Bucky liked that about him. Sharing a quiet space with Bruce never felt weighty, or charged with tension, as his silences were always purposeful, and contemplative.

The nice thing about this was when Bruce broke the silence to speak with you, it was for a reason. He didn't do mindless small talk and, as an added bonus, he was an active listener. Considering where his comfort level with conversation had been when he'd first joined them in the Tower, it wasn't surprising Bucky had always appreciated this about Bruce.

When Bruce asked, "Have you stuck with the meditation?" Bucky knew he was legitimately interested in the answer.

"Not as much as I should’ve," he admitted, catching the slight curve of Bruce's smile in his peripheral vision. "The breathing exercises on the other hand," he shrugged. "Very good for grounding myself. I guess that's a mini-meditation."

Bruce nodded. "Absolutely."

Bucky liked Bruce's approach to cooking, which mirrored his careful approach to working in the lab. They'd started out with Bruce clearly explaining what they were making, the process involved, the supplies needed, the flavor profiles they hoped to create, so that Bucky almost felt as if they’d already prepared the meal together, and were just going through the motions.

This preliminary phase was accomplished while they cleaned their workspace. Clint's most recent popcorn experiment had gone horribly wrong, and he was forbidden to enter the kitchen ( _even to clean it_ ) for 48 hours. Bucky didn’t mind, though, because the cleaning in and of itself was a sort of relaxing precursor to the preparation of the curry.

Once everything was sparkling, they’d gathered their ingredients, and began carefully washing vegetables, Bucky mimicking the way Bruce ritualistically turned, and turned, and gently stroked the produce while running it under the water.

Bruce could be so zen most of the time, it was easy to forget what a terrible balancing act it actually was for him. Even before he’d gotten to know Bruce, Bucky had picked up on the ever present undercurrent of anger just waiting to be tapped into. At the time, Bucky had felt he was more or less in the same boat as Bruce, just drowning in fear and self loathing instead of anger. This knowledge made Bruce seem that much more impressive, in Bucky’s eyes.

"Thanks, by the way." Bruce arched an eyebrow and Bucky added, "for helping me out with that. I can't remember if I ever thanked you."

"You did, but you're welcome again. You seem to be doing well with the recent changes."

Bucky nodded. "Getting used to it. Maybe it's too easy. Sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop, honestly."

"In what regard?"

Bucky sighed, and let himself focus on his careful dicing of the potatoes rather than his  accelerating heartbeat. "After everything, it seems wrong. Being so comfortable with the violence."

"Ah, you're feeling guilty about not feeling guilty."

"When you put it like that it sounds stupid," Bucky laughed. "But yeah. That's about the gist of it."

"Have you talked to anyone about this?"

"Tony," he answered, "Sam, too, at Tony's suggestion. Steve."

"Good," Bruce seemed genuinely pleased to hear it. "I hope you realize what a long way you've come."

"Had a lot of help getting here."

"Still, don't short change yourself," Bruce said softly. "The world is full of people who had help, but never learned to accept it, let alone help others, for that matter."

Bucky smiled at this, feeling embarrassed for reasons he couldn't explain. "Not sure I’ve helped anyone else.”

“Really?” Bruce dried his hands on the dish towel and waited until Bucky was looking at him before continuing. “I’d argue that we’ve all benefited in one way or another through the very act of helping you.”

This remark actually caught Bucky by surprise, because it'd never occurred to him. Bruce saw it written all over his face, and shook his head, saying, "You and Tony are so alike sometimes it's actually disturbing."

"Hm, Tony would ask if you were referring to us both being good looking brunettes with excellent hair," Bucky pointed out, enjoying the way Bruce's eyes crinkled up in amusement.

He knew what Bruce meant though—their tendency to underestimate their own self worth. "I'm trying. He is, too.”

"I can tell." Bruce adjusted his glasses and carefully, as if he was handling something particularly delicate, asked, "Has he spoken to you about the arm yet?"

Bucky tensed up, then took a deep breath and willed himself to relax again. It had reached the point where being asked about Tony’s project automatically had him clenching his fists at his sides as if he was under attack.

"Like I told Clint, I'm trying to respect his need to do whatever it is he's doing." Bucky moved on to dicing the onions, and focused on his breathing. "He'll talk to me when he's ready."

Much like Natasha, Bruce wasn't the sort to touch people, so it was telling that he placed a hand on Bucky's shoulder, a there and gone gesture of comfort.

"That's good," he said, and the carefulness had left his voice, replaced with approval, as if Bruce had been worried about Bucky's answer. "If it's any consolation, I think he's close."

"I'm not going anywhere," Bucky said with a shrug, wishing the whole thing didn't worry him quite so much.

The quiet stretched out between them, slightly less comfortable than before, and Bucky's mind wandered. He had the sneaking suspicion that Bruce knew what was going on with Tony as of late.

A small, petty part of him flared in jealousy, a sort of unfair possessiveness, as if he alone had the right to Tony's thoughts, and feelings. He'd learned not to suppress these feelings, but instead just allowed himself to experience them fully before setting them aside, and moving on.

Once this was accomplished, he was in a better place to be thankful _someone_ knew. At least Tony had been able to turn to Bruce, rather than internalizing everything. Really, that was kind of a big deal, considering this was the same guy who, even after his house had been smashed into the sea, hadn't thought to reach out to any of the Avengers for help when dealing with The Mandarin.

"I'm glad you're his friend," Bucky said, and it was Bruce's turn to look surprised.

"Me too."

This time, the silence was companionable, and the two fell into a nice rhythm of chopping, sautéing, and seasoning, the room filling with the aromatic scent of tempering spices. Bucky’s favorite part was making the samosas, as he could lose himself in careful attention to detail, and repetition. 

They checked on their rice, adjusted the flame, tasted and added more salt where needed. Bucky lost track of time, happy in his work. It wasn’t until he heard a familiar clicking noise behind him that he realized Steve had wandered in, and taken a picture of them. The smile he was wearing said he was up to something.

“What?”

“Cooking Bros,” Steve pointed out. “Tony will love it.”

“Science Bros is still better,” Clint insisted, stepping out from behind Steve, and making everyone else jump in the process.

“Out,” Steve said, not bothering to look at Clint, just hooking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the direction Clint should be heading. “You still have at least 33 hours on the clock. If I catch you in here again, I’m resetting it.”

“Tony would let me,” Clint grumbled. “He probably doesn’t even care, and _he_ owns the place, so I don’t see why…”

“Well, I care, so scram. Ten, nine, eight…”

With a loud noise of disbelief, Clint marched out of the kitchen, muttering his protest under his breath.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into him lately.” Steve shook his head, and Bucky burst out laughing, because how could he _not_. “Don’t you start.”

“Sorry, Dad.” 

Bucky earned himself a patiently amused look from Steve. “Need any help with dinner?”

“You can always set the table,” Bruce suggested. “JARVIS, could you give Tony the countdown?”

“It would be my pleasure, Dr. Banner.”

“Let him know I’m coming down to get him this time if he tries to skip it,” Steve added, grabbing silverware. “He’s missed enough meals as it is, lately.”

JARVIS didn’t reply to this request, but Bucky did. “You know how he gets.”

Beside him, Bruce removed his glasses in order to clean them, sharing a quick glance with Bucky as Steve answered, “Yeah, I _do_ ,” with a little more force than was necessary. “Enough to know something’s been bothering him.”

“Wait a minute,” Bucky removed the curry from the heat, his jaw working. He knew he was a little tightly wound about Tony these days, but was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining the undercurrent of accusation in Steve’s words. “You think that’s my fault?”

“I didn’t say that,” Steve had the decency to look abashed, and Bucky wondered if he had any idea how his tone had come across. “He gets all caught up in his head, Bucky, and sometimes you have to help him back out again.”

Bucky answered as carefully as possible, thinking of Bruce beside him ( _deep breath, count down from ten_ ), reminding himself that just because he wouldn’t turn into the Hulk didn’t mean he shouldn’t control his temper. “There’s helping, and there’s forcing, Steve. He asked for time, so I’m giving him time.”

The look on Steve’s face went a long way towards calming him down, because Bucky could see he was mortified, perhaps only just realizing that it sounded like he was backseat driving Bucky’s relationship with Tony.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, and it was clear he meant it.

“No problem.” Bucky stuck his hand out, and Steve shook it, then allowed Bucky to pull him into a hug. “I know you’re just worried about him.”

“Still, it’s not my place.”

“You’re his friend, aren’t you? Course it is.” 

He couldn’t help but notice Bruce looked like he wanted to be just about anywhere else. Bucky did his best to apologize with his eyes, and got a halfhearted smile in response.

He was starting to worry he'd wind up decking the next person that felt it necessary to point out the glaringly obvious fact that not all was right with their resident mad genius. If Tony didn't talk to him soon, Bucky wouldn't have much choice in the matter, he'd _have_ to push him, something he wasn't comfortable with at all.

Bucky transferred the rice to a large serving bowl, grabbed a spoon, and handed it to Steve, who took things from there. 

"Sorry," Bucky said once Steve was out of earshot.

"It's fine." Bruce was frowning down at the curry as he transferred it to a serving dish. "I don't think you were necessarily out of line there," he added softly.

Before Bucky could respond, they heard a particular sort of commotion that could only mean Tony had actually emerged from the workshop. Bucky made a mental note to ask JARVIS if he’d bothered to pass on Steve’s part of the message, as he suspected the answer was a resounding “no.”

"You heard Steve," and Bucky assumed he was talking to Clint, "I don't know why you think I'm going to give you a different answer. 32 hours and 48 minutes. And the vents still count as being in the kitchen, JARVIS will totally tattle on you if you try to get sneaky."

Tony swept into the kitchen, looking bleary eyed and scruffier than usual, but at least there was a real smile on his face.

"I heard a rumor, and had to come see the Cooking Bros in action," he announced, clapping his hands together. "Look how cute you are, working together! You know, I always say cooking is like science, so if you can science, you can cook."

"Science still isn’t a verb. And before you ask, yes," Bruce pulled the samosas they'd made out of the oven where they were being kept warm, and Tony cheered.

"This is why you're my favorite."

He approached the tray with grabby hands, and Bucky swatted him away. "You'll burn your mouth."

“Don’t tell Bruce, but you’re _really_ my favorite,” he faux whispered, snatching a samosa anyway, taking a big bite. “Ow, hot.”

Bucky shook his head as Tony exhaled around the mouthful of samosa in an attempt to cool it off enough to chew, his face screwed up comically, and whatever irritation Bucky had been holding onto evaporated. 

He mussed up Tony’s hair, earning himself an outraged, “Hey!” in the process, then took the large dish of curry from Bruce, and headed out, almost running into Steve.

“I’ll take it,” he offered, doing his best not to look at anyone in the room, grabbing it before Bucky could answer.

“What’s up with Cap?” Bucky and Bruce sighed at the same time, and Tony added, “Okay. Did I miss something?”

“Not really,” Bruce answered, leaving with the samosas.

“It’s fine.”

“Right, sure, it’s not suddenly weird in here at all,” Tony narrowed his eyes, but perhaps remembering that he himself had been deflecting on a lot of fronts, changed the subject. “Hey, I was thinking after dinner maybe we could head upstairs. You know, just me, and you, and no one else?”

The odd thing was, Tony actually looked like he expected Bucky to say no. “That sounds great.”

Tony’s eyes lit up, and he sauntered over, settling a hand on Bucky’s hip. “Excellent,” his fingers slid under the shirt, warm, familiar, and welcome. “I miss you, and yes, I realize that’s my own fault, but…”

“I miss you, too,” Bucky cut him off, shivering a bit when Tony’s hand slid up his side, then circled down to rest at the small of his back, pulling him in close. 

Tony glanced over his shoulder, and since he didn’t spot anyone, he reached up, curled his hand around the back of Bucky’s neck, and brought their mouths together with a sigh. 

Unable to help himself, Bucky wrapped his arms around Tony, and kissed back for a moment before asking, “Isn’t there a no kissing in common areas rule in place now?”

“My kitchen, my rules.” Tony nuzzled against the side of Bucky’s neck, and tightened his grip. “Consult the bylaws if you must, but I’m pretty sure there’s something in there about mandatory make out sessions before dinner.”

Tony kissed him again, this time with a bit more enthusiasm, until someone cleared their throat from behind them. Thankfully, Bruce looked more amused than annoyed. “Our dinner is getting cold,” he pointed out.

“Sorry, sorry, that’s on me, my fault,” Tony backed away, hands in the air, a silly grin plastered across his face. “Let’s eat!”

Bucky smiled as he watched Tony spin on his heels, and head out, hooking an arm around Bruce’s shoulders along the way with a shout of, “Samosas are calling!”

As he followed them in, Bucky thought to himself that it was strange how little, relatively unimportant moments could make you feel like you were falling in love with someone all over again. 


	7. Tony

Bucky was sound asleep when Tony came into the bedroom, flopped down on the bed ( _half on top of Bucky_ ), and blurted, “Why don’t you want to cook with me?”

“Wha?” 

Bucky propped himself up on his elbows. His hair had flopped over his eyes and he couldn’t make out the time other than determining it began with a three. Tony was a heavy weight on his back, so with a grunt, Bucky rolled himself over so they could face each other.

“You asked everyone else,” Tony said, as Bucky struggled to get his sleep addled brain up to speed.

“You never cook,” Bucky managed around a yawn. He was pretty sure he’d only been asleep an hour.

“Untrue! You’ve just never _seen_ me cook, that doesn’t mean I can’t, or don’t want to,” Tony pointed out, and Bucky was finally awake enough to realize Tony was genuinely upset. “I figured, sure, why not, he’s saving the best for last, any day now he’ll ask, I even dropped hints—did you not get the hints? There were _hints_ , James.”

“I missed the hints, I’m sorry,” Bucky managed to disentangle himself enough to sit upright. Tony was still frowning, which was more obvious once Bucky turned on the bedside lamp. He was all twitchy around the mouth, which was never a good sign. “I didn’t want to make you feel obligated...”

Tony interrupted him, which was such a rare occurrence that Bucky was suddenly wide awake. “Right, so you don’t even _ask_? I mean, I’ve cooked before, I’m not _totally_ inept. If you don’t believe me, ask Steve, he’s cooked with me. In fact, I taught Steve how to make lasagna, so there!”

Bucky opened his mouth to protest, but snapped it shut at the last moment, because now not only was he seriously worried about Tony, he was also wondering why Steve had felt the need to lie to him about where he’d learned to make lasagna. He swallowed past the pervasive sense of doom, and forced himself to remain calm.

“Antoshka, why are you going out of your way to start an argument with me?”

Now it was Tony’s turn to freeze, and just as Bucky braced himself for some sort of verbal onslaught, or for Tony to up and run, the man just deflated, shoulders slumping as he dropped his head into his hands.

“I am, aren’t I, that’s exactly what I’m doing. _Fuck_.”

Bucky hesitated, then placed a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “What the hell is going on?”

“I finished your arm,” Tony blurted. “Want to see?” He looked up, met Bucky’s gaze head on, his eyes seeming to say, “please.”

“Okay.”

The relief was palpable, and so Bucky tried to remain calm as he pulled on his pants from the day before, not bothering with a shirt or socks or anything else, because Tony was already heading for the door.

They said nothing along the way, the quiet hanging between them until they were in the elevator together. Tony grabbed his hand, twined their fingers together, and said, “You don’t have to use it, that’s fine, I just had to make it, okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky agreed, although there were a lot of other things he’d preferred to have said or asked. 

He tightened his grip on Tony’s hand, and just before the doors opened, used it to pull Tony into a hug. It was a huge relief when Tony hugged him back, letting go of his hand in order to snake his arms around Bucky. It made him want to squeeze Tony even tighter, and so he did, pulling them as close together as possible.

When he let go, he couldn’t help but notice that Tony’s eyes were bright, but he thankfully seemed slightly less freaked out. “Right. Here we go.”

Due to the top ( _not so_ ) secret nature of the project, Bucky hadn’t been in the workshop in almost two weeks, and wasn’t entirely surprised to find it in a general state of disarray. The bots were in their charging stations, and Bucky wasn’t sure if he was projecting or not when he decided they seemed anxious, and concerned.

Several other projects were in the final stages of prototyping: yet another iteration of Iron Man; what looked to be seriously upgraded gauntlets for Natasha; something he couldn’t make sense of, but suspected was for the Hulk; new armor for Steve; and a collection of new arrow types for Clint.

“You’ve been busy.”

Tony ran a hand through his hair and shrugged. As they approached the center of the room, Bucky spotted a familiar shape on the workbench, although it was obscured by some sort of drop cloth. Tony cracked his knuckles, and spun to face Bucky, one hand hovering over the fabric.

“It’s fine if you hate it. Like I said, you don’t ever need to use it, I just, ah, look. Here’s the thing, I’m going to need to connect it, just once, just to make sure everything is working up to spec, but we can swap it back out immediately after, so keep that in mind.”

Bucky took a deep breath, and was proud at how little of his concern made it into his voice. “Can we swap it now, or do we need to wait for Bruce?”

To Bucky, it almost looked like Tony was blinking back tears. “No, we don’t need to wait,” he said softly, chewing on his lower lip. “You should probably see it first, before deciding.” He glanced at Bucky, then his eyes shifted away as he pulled back the sheet.

The arm looked much like the one he was currently attached to, proportionally speaking. Bucky stepped closer, and ran his fingers over the metallic surface, noting the material was different than his current arm. Most noticeably, the red star was absent, having been replaced with the same design as appeared on Captain America’s shield. This made Bucky smile, despite his concern, especially when he leaned closer and noticed the subtle blue glow coming from beneath the insignia.

“Is there an arc reactor in there?” he asked, sounding amazed even to himself.

Tony cleared his throat. “Maybe. A bit.”

There was definitely something surreal about standing there staring at the arm, especially as he began noticing all the tiny differences, like the alterations made to the fingers; they looked much more in keeping with those of his flesh and blood hand, and closer inspection revealed what looked almost to be fingerprints on each of the pads.

Something was different with the palm of the hand as well. He traced the delicate metallic outline of a closed shutter of sorts, wondering what it was for, even as he refocused his gaze to the graceful curve of muscle, the improved construction around the elbow, and the almost silky smooth flushness of the vents.

“This is beautiful, Antoshka,” he murmured, watching as his breath fogged up the metal. 

Tucking his hair behind his ears, he straightened up, not bothering to hide his confusion. Tony was smiling now, looking relieved, and Bucky was still trying to figure out why he’d been so nervous in the first place.

“Yeah, you like it?”

Standing there, hands shoved in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels, Tony looked like a little kid, all shy, glowing pride. “I love it,” Bucky insisted, licking his lips. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s been going on with you lately.”

“Ah,” and the happy expression slid off of Tony’s face to be replaced with something more in keeping with his behavior as of late. He gave a little shrug, and Bucky felt his heart begin to race. “It isn’t that big a deal, really.”

“You’ve been locked down here, shutting me out, building upgrades for everyone like...” and he had to stop, because something had just occurred to him, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe, could feel the room tilting off its axis.

Tony pulled a face, and folded his arms across his chest, one hand popping out to gesture around the room theatrically. “Look, I’m not going to be around forever, is all, and, _shit_. Hey, hey!” 

Tony was suddenly right there, his face transformed by concern, and Bucky realized he was halfway to his knees, one hand gripping the workbench, the other holding onto Tony. He let himself sink the rest of the way to the floor, pulled Tony down with him, and struggled to get his mouth to work.

“Are you dying? Is that what’s…”

“Whoa, whoa,” Tony’s eyes widened, and he quickly pulled Bucky into a hug, then grabbed hold of his face and kissed him hard. “No, no one is dying, I’m fine, I’m just, _fuck_ , trying to be proactive or something.”

Bucky couldn’t decide if he wanted to throw up, shake Tony, or kiss him again, so he just let out the sob he’d been holding in, and buried his face in his hands, shaking with adrenaline.

“I’m so sorry,” Tony babbled, stroking Bucky’s hair, and his shoulders. “I’m fine, really, totally healthy, not dying at all. Well, okay, technically we’re _all_ dying, in a sense, but…”

Bucky pulled Tony into a viselike hug, then shoved him away, wiping a hand over his face to get rid of the tears. He shifted around until he was sitting crosslegged, and glared at Tony, heart still hammering wildly against his ribcage. “What, then, why the sudden need to build upgrades for everyone? Why’ve you been so erratic?”

Tony looked appropriately mortified. “I’m sorry, if I thought you’d think…”

“What else am I supposed to think?”

“I wouldn’t tell you like _that_ ,” Tony insisted, “and don’t you dare say omelet! I know Pepper told you about that, and it is not fair bringing mistakes from previous relationships into the mix.”

Bucky took a deep breath, exhaled, then took another. It took every last bit of willpower, but he pushed his chaotic feelings aside, steadied his heartbeat, his breathing, and then just _looked_ at Tony. Somehow, the silence worked in ways the questioning hadn’t, because he could see the resignation in Tony’s eyes.

“Fine.” Tony exhaled shakily, and plopped down onto his ass, kicking his legs out in front of him. “So, about two weeks ago, when you were out on that mission with the assassin twins, I might have had, uh, a bit of a… I’d guess you’d call it a meltdown?”

Bucky felt his heart lurch, but forced himself to not react, trying to shelve the strange sense of betrayal welling up inside of him. “What happened?”

“I had one of my totally awesome wormhole nightmares, only this time, dear old dad decided to make an appearance, so there was the added bonus of being told what a colossal disappointment I was.” 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, and shrugged. “So, when I woke up, I had a few drinks, then panicked, dumped the bottle, found Bruce, and kept him up all night questioning the nature of reality.”

Bucky wanted to ask why Tony hadn’t just told him back when it had happened, but he already knew the answer. It wasn’t that Tony didn’t love or trust him, it was that most of the important people in his life had so thoroughly fucked him over when he needed them the most that it was hard for him to trust his _own trust_ in people. 

At least he’d sought out Bruce, and Bucky thought back to their careful conversation, once again concluding that Bruce was a good friend.

“Also, yes, I’m glossing over details here, but I’m not in the right headspace to get into it all. I promise, later we can have all the heartfelts you want, okay? James,” and now he was pleading with his eyes, hoping for forgiveness, but expecting to get the emotional equivalent of a kick in the teeth. “I’m sorry, I fucked up, and then I made it worse, by not saying anything.”

With a sigh, Bucky got to his feet, and grabbed hold of Tony, pulling him upright and into a tight embrace. He rocked him back and forth, and said, “I’m not going anywhere, Antoshka, I love you.”

Even if he’d wanted to yell, or berate Tony for the slip up—which he didn’t—or call him out on the backslide in communication, Bucky was well aware that Tony was his own worst critic. He’d likely spent every waking moment of the last two weeks putting himself through the grinder, and the last thing Bucky wanted was to do was make him feel worse.

“That’s really good to hear,” Tony murmured, and allowed Bucky to end the hug so that he could cup Tony’s face in his hands, and look him in the eyes. “I kept telling myself that, but, you know. Well Adjusted is not my middle name for a reason.”

“Is this why you made new equipment for everyone?”

Tony’s mouth quirked, and he tilted his head a bit. “Ah, well, actually, I wasn’t kidding about being proactive. The nightmare got me thinking about death, and then I realized everything was still set to go to Pepper, which, sure, she’s still getting something. A lot, really.” 

He sighed, pressed his mouth into a thin line, and started again. “Anyway, I changed my will, so when the inevitable happens, you’ll all be taken care of. That’s sort of, uh, important to me, knowing the Avengers will be bankrolled. I also _might_ have made you, Steve, and Pepper the majority shareholders of Stark Industries, so I hope that’s okay.”

Bucky swallowed past the lump in his throat, and tried to ignore the awful dropping out sensation that accompanied the thought of Tony dying. He was still feeling the aftereffects from their previous misunderstanding, and wanted to beg Tony to just stop talking about it already, but that wasn’t fair—he’d lost count of the times Tony had patiently listened to him when he’d needed to talk, and none of those conversations had been pleasant.

“Right, so after that, I got to thinking about,” and here Tony paused again, his voice catching, but he pushed on, the words coming out in a rush, “uh, _you_ , getting injured, or dying, which, yeah, please _don’t_.” He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Fuck, right, this is _awful,_ this is the worst conversation ever, why are you still letting me talk?”

“Because you need to,” Bucky answered.

“You’re a horrible, horrible man,” Tony said, quickly adding, “no you’re not, you’re amazing.”

Tony was too brilliant, too charismatic, too perfectly fractured and stitched back together beautifully, and so very _Tony_ , that his absence would be the equivalent of a black hole suddenly appearing in the middle of New York. Bucky couldn’t imagine surviving the gravitational pull of his absence, would much rather let himself be sucked into oblivion, if it came to that.

He figured he should probably say something to that effect. “I can’t stand thinking of a world that doesn’t have you in it.”

Tony actually smiled at this, although it was a bit watery. “Now you know why I wasn’t exactly excited to have this conversation. I’m a fuck up _and_ a bummer. No one should invite me to parties.”

“New rule. You don’t get to call yourself a fuck up anymore,” Bucky said, tilting Tony’s chin up so he could get a better look at his eyes. They were the same eyes he’d seen in pictures of Tony as a child, and ( _not for the first time_ ) a small, vindictive part of him hated Howard Stark.

“Okay, just a bummer then. Do you really like the arm?”

“I love the arm,” Bucky insisted.

“Good, great. We’re not exactly living the white picket lifestyle here. Any of us could go at any time, and I guess I got this idea in my head, then couldn’t shake it. At least this way, if something happens, between Bruce and JARVIS you don’t have to worry, they could build you a new arm at any time.”

“So, this isn’t an apology arm,” Bucky asked.

“Nope,” Tony worried at his lower lip a bit. “It’s a just in case arm. The apology part was where I said I was sorry. Which I meant, by the way. I just, uh, wanted to finish everything up before we talked about the whole having something to be sorry for situation.”

Which meant what Tony was really saying was he knew himself well enough to predict he’d fall face first back into a bottle if Bucky had decided the slip up was worth ending things over, leaving him in no position to finish the upgrades for the team.

“Apology accepted.”

Bucky exhaled loudly, studying the relief and gratitude visible on Tony’s face. He was pretty sure he should be more upset, or concerned—more _something_ —but instead he was just relieved that Tony wasn’t dying, and that now he ( _more or less, sans some pertinent details_ ) finally knew what the hell was going.

“Hey, Antoshka,” he said, giving Tony’s shoulder a playful punch, “wanna show me how to cook something?”

“Yes, absolutely, I love you for asking—I mean, I love you for lots of reasons—but, yeah, let’s make something, like right now,” Tony blurted, his entire body seeming to slump with relief, as if it was only just sinking in that nothing awful was going to happen, that he was allowed to make a mistake, and it didn’t need to be the end of the world.

“Alright then,” Bucky tilted his head in the direction of the doors. “What should we make?”

“French Toast, with obscene amounts of butter. Don’t let me have more coffee, though, no matter how much I beg, and I’m definitely going to beg, count on it.”

“I think I can handle it.” Bucky took Tony’s hand on the way to the elevator, and didn’t let go until they were in the kitchen.

“Thanks, by the way.” Tony gave him a look equal parts confusion and wonder, before asking,  “You’re really not going anywhere, are you?”

“Nope.” As if to prove his point, Bucky dipped his head enough to brush his lips against Tony's, adding, "I'm right where I want to be," before kissing him.

“Huh.” Tony studied him intensely for a moment, his eyes a bit too bright, and his cheeks suspiciously pink, then ducked his head, and smiled softly. “Good. Excellent, really. Okay, so we need bread, eggs, the whole shebang. Let’s get to work.”

So they did, Tony seemingly needing to invade Bucky’s personal space as much as possible, as if confirming he was still entitled to do so. Bucky didn’t mind, he found he liked cooking that way, with their shoulders touching, or a hand resting against his lower back, Tony even reaching out to tuck his hair behind his ear for him.

When their eyes met, there was something different there, underneath the gratitude, and relief. There might have been a similar look in his own eyes, because his chest almost hurt, filled as it was with love for the man next to him.

Tony might be right about the risks involved in their lifestyle, but wasn’t that just life in a nutshell? Everyone was at risk every day, it was just that most of them didn’t think about it, and as a result, maybe they didn’t cherish what they had quite as much. Bucky wasn’t about to make that mistake; he was going to enjoy every minute he had with Tony.

So, maybe the end result of their French Toast wasn’t the prettiest, but they’d made it together, ate it standing side by side at the kitchen counter. They didn’t say much as they ate, just exchanged the occasional syrupy kiss, content to be there with each other, enjoying the fruits of their labor. 

It was, without a doubt, the best breakfast of Bucky’s life.

And if he eventually caved, and let Tony have more coffee, then so be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Tony isn't dying! And he finally opened his mouth. And man this thing got long. Hope I didn't bore you all to tears along the way. Whew. Also, yes, we will find out what new features are involved with Bucky's new arm, it just wasn't the right time for Tony to pop it on and show off, if you know what I mean. :)


End file.
